To me, saying goodbye at the workplace isn't easy, and most of the time, can get a li'l mushy.
But I haven't had many significant workplace goodbyes to qualify my earlier statement.
Here's a column I wrote two years ago, when I left my first full-time job, at Lifestyle, Singapore's largest-circulating monthly magazine.
The following story was published in the August 2010 issue:
----------------------
I was warned.
"No flattery, ah!" my already stern-looking boss said sternly.
According to managing ed Tan Shee Lah, this column is meant for me to thank, and say bye-bye to my fans (that's if I have any, in the first place).
And knowing me and my big mouth, my humble boss has already issued a gag order, so I cannot praise -- and possibly embarrass her -- in this column (that's if I have anything nice to say, in the first place - ha!).
So dear reader, you will not hear me sing praises of my boss. Instead, I will sing praises of this lovely place that's been second home to me, for the past four years.
I love this place where I've been allowed to break the routine with running, swimming, gymming, and pantry meetings for lunch, tea and ice cream.
And when I do get down to work (what, you think I've got elves writing stories for me issit?), I actually enjoy my work, which makes chasing stories, juggling multiple projects and meeting deadlines a little easier.
Sure, we're all human and work can be hell. Amid pressing deadlines and a sometimes too-heavy workload, it's inevitable that we grumble and argue.
But at the end of the day, the job gets done and the griping, quickly forgotten.
After all, we share a deep sense of camaraderie in NTUC Media, built up from years of random office celebration (birthday parties and whatnots), BBQ and beer sessions after work, and company retreats.
Yes, work is important but people-relations are equally vital.
My principle is, go beyond being professional, and don't distance your colleagues. To me, colleagues can be friends. It's whether or not you abuse that relationship.
If the workplace is going to be second home to many of us, then we should be sincere and treat co-workers like friends and family.
Which is why at NTUC Media, when the going gets tough, everyone gets going.
Two years ago, when we organised a big-scare event at the Singapore Flyer (event management is one of our company's services), everyone in the company chipped in to help. It was hard work, packing goodie bags, communicating by walkie-talkie, and ushering guests around. But we were all happy to be involved.
Recently, Lifestyle organised a series of Kluang trips for readers.
Again, staff from various departments happily volunteered to go along to lend a helping hand.
As I count down to my last day, I am beginning to, for the very first time in Lifestyle, drag my feet to work.
But I am very sure that everyone in NTUC Media -- bound by camaraderie -- will continue to keep this publication fun and friendly.
Which reminds me -- I should sign on as a subscriber...
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Sadako - watch at your own expense
There is one scene in Sadako in which director Tsutomu Hanabusa should have nailed right from the start -- the lid of the well where Sadako was dumped.
That should keep Sadako in her place and save us from having to go through this horrible horror flick in the first place.
Since the 1998 Japan horror The Ring, Sadako has become such a household horror brand name that it's spawned at least two other movies -- The Ring 2 and a feeble Hollywood remake -- neither of which tipped the scare-o-metre clocked by the original film.
This one's no exception.
In this movie -- which is a tweaked version of The Ring featuring a brand new cast and storyline -- director Hanabusa pushes Sadako to her limits. Our Japanese friend here is no longer crawling out of TVs but instead-- get this -- Mac Books, large LCD billboards and smartphone screens of sorts.
While there is commendable technological evolution in Sadako, the plot remains more or less the same: A cursed video recording is uploaded online and whoever watches it ends up killing himself or herself.
Cue heroine of movie, high school teacher Akane (Satomi Ishihara) whose student leaps off a building after watching the said vid. As Akane probes her student's death, she unwittingly gets embroiled in this cursed video business.
Apart from believable acting, there's little else to celebrate.
There could have been better use of horror-movie techniques, such as employing sound effects.
Sadly, there was no abrupt ringing of the telephone, sudden sound of an opening cupboard, or spooky audio to mark the start of something eerie.
It's so not boomz.
Then, there's the occasional cliched scene that is so predictable I suspect Hanabusa was sleepy when he wrote that part of the storyline.
Also, what's sorely missing in Sadako is suspense.
Unlike The Ring, in which Sadako's crawl-out-of-TV scene caught many by surprise, the hairy hantu in Sadako is crawl-happy, acting like some attention-seeking jack-in-the-box by wanting to pop out of every available screen in Japan.
What a turn off, Sadako. And you wonder why your cursed video viewers scramble to cut electricity supply of their gadgets.
Or kill themselves after.
That should keep Sadako in her place and save us from having to go through this horrible horror flick in the first place.
Since the 1998 Japan horror The Ring, Sadako has become such a household horror brand name that it's spawned at least two other movies -- The Ring 2 and a feeble Hollywood remake -- neither of which tipped the scare-o-metre clocked by the original film.
This one's no exception.
In this movie -- which is a tweaked version of The Ring featuring a brand new cast and storyline -- director Hanabusa pushes Sadako to her limits. Our Japanese friend here is no longer crawling out of TVs but instead-- get this -- Mac Books, large LCD billboards and smartphone screens of sorts.
While there is commendable technological evolution in Sadako, the plot remains more or less the same: A cursed video recording is uploaded online and whoever watches it ends up killing himself or herself.
Cue heroine of movie, high school teacher Akane (Satomi Ishihara) whose student leaps off a building after watching the said vid. As Akane probes her student's death, she unwittingly gets embroiled in this cursed video business.
Apart from believable acting, there's little else to celebrate.
There could have been better use of horror-movie techniques, such as employing sound effects.
Sadly, there was no abrupt ringing of the telephone, sudden sound of an opening cupboard, or spooky audio to mark the start of something eerie.
It's so not boomz.
Then, there's the occasional cliched scene that is so predictable I suspect Hanabusa was sleepy when he wrote that part of the storyline.
Also, what's sorely missing in Sadako is suspense.
Unlike The Ring, in which Sadako's crawl-out-of-TV scene caught many by surprise, the hairy hantu in Sadako is crawl-happy, acting like some attention-seeking jack-in-the-box by wanting to pop out of every available screen in Japan.
What a turn off, Sadako. And you wonder why your cursed video viewers scramble to cut electricity supply of their gadgets.
Or kill themselves after.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Why I'm still a journo
Journalism does not put food on the table.
Okay, maybe it does, if you consider chap chye peng or your char bee hoon.
But journalism does not put very good food on the table -- unless of course, you're a food reviewer.
I always imagine my socialite friends striking me off their potluck invite list as a result, though I really shouldn't be adding to the toilet roll-long list of reasons people shun reporters.
It's not exactly a glamorous job, unless of course, you're a prime-time news anchor or editor of some glossy magazine, or the devil who wears Prada.
After all, it's not as if we're the only ones who can ask questions, snoop around, string info into a story and hit spell check, right?
Plus, I'm always kept on my toes after every story's been published. On some days, prudent readers make me feel like toenail dirt.
OMG. How could he have gotten that wrong?!
That F*****G reporter misqouted me!
Can you kindly tell me what sort of logic this is?
Wow, you're so intelligent! Okay, I made this one up, just to balance views.
Come to think of it, there are many cons to my job.
Yet, I love it.
I know right. Some people are just suckers for punishment.
Perhaps, I love journalism because of the salary? Oh, please, don't even get me started. Then again, why not?
So here we go.
When I was in Secondary Three, my heavy-chested English teacher made the class think of our future. Think about how you can turn what you're good at and what you love doing, into a career, she told us.
After a grand total of 10 minutes, I decided at age 15, that the only option I'm left with -- after considering issues of legality, decency and morality -- is to be a reporter.
Thick skinned, check. Love digging other people's secrets, check. Love to talk -- even to strangers, Oooo, yeah, check, check, check.
And so began my journey to journalism.
But as I started my editorial journey, I learnt that there's more to journalism than the ideal world my 15-year-old self had imagined.
In my uni days, I was given a chance to chase a story with an angle that went against my principles.
Ethics or byline, I remember asking myself. The answer was obvious. To hell with ethics.
My story ended up on page two of the university paper, and was one of 20 stories picked out of 200 submissions.
Though I kept the newspaper cutting, I've never re-read that piece to this day.
It took me weeks of guilt to realise that a byline is worth nothing, a story is worth nothing, if I cannot justify why I wrote it the way it was.
The 15-year-old Wai Kit didn't predict journalism to be like that. Isn't it as simple as writing something the way it is?
Years later, when I embarked on my career in a magazine, I was confronted by a stumbling block: My incredibly low salary.
Eh, Wai Kit, my shampoo girl earns more than you leh, a thoughtful friend once said to me. Lovely person, that one.
Indeed, for many years, my take-home pay had been, take a deep breath, S$1,300, and we're talking about a hardworking dean's-list graduate here, leh.
For years, the only food that I put on the table was really chap chye peng or char bee hoon, I kid you not.
Two kind-hearted colleagues, who eventually learnt of my poor situation, quietly offered to lend me money at the end of the month, in case I had to resort to eating shredded secret documents for lunch.
But I got by my literally poor literary days because, to use a cliched term, I had passion.
Over the years of my work, I've grown to love every aspect of journalism.
I loved speaking to one and sundry -- from cabbies and politicians to diva pop stars and suicide survivors -- all in the name of a good story.
I loved waking up in the morning, raring to go to work to complete that story which I know can make a teeny-weeny impact to society.
I loved reading the Sunday papers and being inspired to come up with quirky story ideas to rival theirs.
I loved poring over stacks of printed research, leafing my interview pad with a saliva-ed finger, and cracking my head to come up with the best possible way to present that story.
I even loved the tedious process of fact-checking the ozalids before the pages are finally sent to print.
At the end of each month, when the magazines arrive at our office, just thumbing the glossy pages gives me gratification.
I was certain that if I put my nose near the magazine and rapidly flipped the pages with my thumb, I'd be able to smell cold coffee and the sweat that went into the stories.
It helped too, that the people I worked with had the same passion. The same love for journalism. And the same miserable pay. So when the going got tough, we all ate chap chye peng or char bee hoon together.
Most importantly, I didn't dread my work.
Not many people can wake up every day. Some die in their sleep.
And for those who can wake up every day, not everyone can tell himself that, damn, I can't wait to get to work.
I was -- and am -- such a person.
Though I'm earning more than S$1,300 now, I'm still grossly underpaid.
But at the end of the day, I tell myself that as long as journalism can put chap chye peng or char bee hoon on my table, and as long as I still love what I do, I won't think about the cons of my job -- even if I can't earn a lot.
I can only hope that one day, I don't end up eating my words.
Okay, maybe it does, if you consider chap chye peng or your char bee hoon.
But journalism does not put very good food on the table -- unless of course, you're a food reviewer.
I always imagine my socialite friends striking me off their potluck invite list as a result, though I really shouldn't be adding to the toilet roll-long list of reasons people shun reporters.
It's not exactly a glamorous job, unless of course, you're a prime-time news anchor or editor of some glossy magazine, or the devil who wears Prada.
After all, it's not as if we're the only ones who can ask questions, snoop around, string info into a story and hit spell check, right?
Plus, I'm always kept on my toes after every story's been published. On some days, prudent readers make me feel like toenail dirt.
OMG. How could he have gotten that wrong?!
That F*****G reporter misqouted me!
Can you kindly tell me what sort of logic this is?
Wow, you're so intelligent! Okay, I made this one up, just to balance views.
Come to think of it, there are many cons to my job.
Yet, I love it.
I know right. Some people are just suckers for punishment.
Perhaps, I love journalism because of the salary? Oh, please, don't even get me started. Then again, why not?
So here we go.
When I was in Secondary Three, my heavy-chested English teacher made the class think of our future. Think about how you can turn what you're good at and what you love doing, into a career, she told us.
After a grand total of 10 minutes, I decided at age 15, that the only option I'm left with -- after considering issues of legality, decency and morality -- is to be a reporter.
Thick skinned, check. Love digging other people's secrets, check. Love to talk -- even to strangers, Oooo, yeah, check, check, check.
And so began my journey to journalism.
But as I started my editorial journey, I learnt that there's more to journalism than the ideal world my 15-year-old self had imagined.
In my uni days, I was given a chance to chase a story with an angle that went against my principles.
Ethics or byline, I remember asking myself. The answer was obvious. To hell with ethics.
My story ended up on page two of the university paper, and was one of 20 stories picked out of 200 submissions.
Though I kept the newspaper cutting, I've never re-read that piece to this day.
It took me weeks of guilt to realise that a byline is worth nothing, a story is worth nothing, if I cannot justify why I wrote it the way it was.
The 15-year-old Wai Kit didn't predict journalism to be like that. Isn't it as simple as writing something the way it is?
Years later, when I embarked on my career in a magazine, I was confronted by a stumbling block: My incredibly low salary.
Eh, Wai Kit, my shampoo girl earns more than you leh, a thoughtful friend once said to me. Lovely person, that one.
Indeed, for many years, my take-home pay had been, take a deep breath, S$1,300, and we're talking about a hardworking dean's-list graduate here, leh.
For years, the only food that I put on the table was really chap chye peng or char bee hoon, I kid you not.
Two kind-hearted colleagues, who eventually learnt of my poor situation, quietly offered to lend me money at the end of the month, in case I had to resort to eating shredded secret documents for lunch.
But I got by my literally poor literary days because, to use a cliched term, I had passion.
Over the years of my work, I've grown to love every aspect of journalism.
I loved speaking to one and sundry -- from cabbies and politicians to diva pop stars and suicide survivors -- all in the name of a good story.
I loved waking up in the morning, raring to go to work to complete that story which I know can make a teeny-weeny impact to society.
I loved reading the Sunday papers and being inspired to come up with quirky story ideas to rival theirs.
I loved poring over stacks of printed research, leafing my interview pad with a saliva-ed finger, and cracking my head to come up with the best possible way to present that story.
I even loved the tedious process of fact-checking the ozalids before the pages are finally sent to print.
At the end of each month, when the magazines arrive at our office, just thumbing the glossy pages gives me gratification.
I was certain that if I put my nose near the magazine and rapidly flipped the pages with my thumb, I'd be able to smell cold coffee and the sweat that went into the stories.
It helped too, that the people I worked with had the same passion. The same love for journalism. And the same miserable pay. So when the going got tough, we all ate chap chye peng or char bee hoon together.
Most importantly, I didn't dread my work.
Not many people can wake up every day. Some die in their sleep.
And for those who can wake up every day, not everyone can tell himself that, damn, I can't wait to get to work.
I was -- and am -- such a person.
Though I'm earning more than S$1,300 now, I'm still grossly underpaid.
But at the end of the day, I tell myself that as long as journalism can put chap chye peng or char bee hoon on my table, and as long as I still love what I do, I won't think about the cons of my job -- even if I can't earn a lot.
I can only hope that one day, I don't end up eating my words.
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